Dark Red Demons
by anyadoll
Summary: This is how he will face them, all these demons around him...
1. The Hollow Man

**A/N:** okay, so it's been awhile once again but the hubby and I are moving. I've been on my Mentalist kick…and this song by Imagine Dragons is just so inspiring and so Jane-like. The lyrics are from their song "Demons"—clearly appropriate and will follow throughout the story. I'm even thinking about throwing some Brett Stiles in here, since I like their friendly enemy nature. I have no plan for this…just hinting season 5, and I will also make no guess as to RJ since even my detective skills feel shorted out just thinking about it.

*Also, here's this little –official- tidbit to get me through: "eventually they will have a romance. But it will happen slowly and gradually. " - Bruno Heller

**Dark Red Demons**

_When the days are cold_

_And the cards all fold_

_And the saints we see_

_Are all made of gold_

_When your dreams all fail_

_And the ones we hail_

_Are the worst of all_

_And the blood's run stale_

_I wanna hide the truth _

_I wanna shelter you_

_But with the beast inside_

_There's nowhere we can hide…_

He spent long, grueling, hours of days he would never get back interrogating the unbreakable, illustrious temptress that was Lorelei Martins. Not one of the CBI agents had been able to get more than a three-word sentence from the siren. They'd tried every trick they knew, from threatening, to appealing, even Jane's offer of hypnotizing.

So they left her in a state of solitary confinement, thinking possibly it would weasel out some information that meant anything.

Any outside observer would see the toll it was taking on the team's structure. Cho, Rigsby, and even the overtly compassionate Van Pelt were wary about Jane's faked breakdown, and his somewhat Cain-like return. Regardless of their boss taking him back with open arms.

But no outside observer could see how much Teresa Lisbon suffered. She'd learned how to compartmentalize well after the death of her mother and the subsequent death of her father. After that, the deaths of those closest to her that followed just became another untouched box in her "memory palace." Somehow, even with death hanging over her, the hollowness she felt when Jane had all but abandoned her, the sorrow she saw when he staged her shooting, and the feel of his hand in hers in the gritty dust of the desert—nothing hurt more than knowing he'd slept with Lorelei.

He'd waxed poetic for a decade on his devotion to his dead wife, and that she could understand. Of course he'd been admired by women; Sophie Miller had been in love with him, a love that demanded attention, a clinical love—he was so broken, and like Lisbon, she was a fixer. Kristina Frye followed after. Devious in an honest way, with all the innocence and naivety of a silly teenager teasing and poking—could have lasted, could have gone farther—if not for becoming one of Red John's darker works. Lisbon knew that it would have been more merciful for Red John to have killed the poor medium over leaving her catatonic. And of course, Erica Flynn; the Black Widow herself had about seduced him, had him in her manipulative clutches, and of all his past follies, Erica scared Lisbon the most—perhaps because she felt replaced, perhaps because Erica was so free, so addictively attractive that she could see Jane sparking a connection with her. Yes, Erica frightened Lisbon, at least until she met Lorelei.

Lisbon felt herself caught somewhere between _why her_ and _why not me_, both of which shook her to the core instantaneously after the disturbing revelation left the vipers lips.

She hadn't worked up the courage to confront Jane about it, though she knew that talk would have to come soon. Then again, he'd downright dismissed his awkwardly timed "love you" confession as hype. Given the chaos, the mania, of the past few days, Lisbon felt like every step of it from the time she sat down in the church pew had all been one of those horrible waking dreams.

She sighed heavily. Her home didn't feel like a refuge anymore, not since her head became a price for the friendship of a serial killer. She wasn't stupid, she knew now more than ever there was a lovely red smile face painted on her back. It was no longer a matter of if he'd come for her, but when.

She'd managed to compartmentalize that notion as well.

Things like that were inevitable.

Lately she'd been sleeping on the couch in her office, the one her prodigal consultant had purchased for her almost 2 years ago—and though she would not ever tell him, and she would make sure to be gone before dawn—she'd stake a claim on his couch from time to time as well. If just to retrieve a memory, a scent, a hint of him. That was when Lisbon realized how much he consumed every part of her life—from the furniture to the paper origami frog she kept hidden in a drawer in her desk. She'd missed him more than she could ever express, and those were the longest six months she ever could have experienced.

The exhaustion crept into her; she massaged her temples, attempting to push the headache away. She closed her laptop gently and moved to her new bed.

All the while formulating how to approach Patrick Jane on his confession…

XOX

So close. Always. Every time.

Two steps forward, ten steps back. Just when he thought he was breaking through, he'd lose the connection, make a misstep, say the wrong word and their sole, still breathing, link to Red John would shut down.

At the same time, so would his dear Teresa. He watched, painfully, guiltily, as every jab he sent to Lorelei came back tenfold on Lisbon. She was wonderful, beautiful, strong, but even the strongest resolve would break. He was too close to her, she too close to him. And Red John knew it.

He remembered a not so long ago time that every move he made sent her into fits, and every time she came at him screaming, ranting, he would casually wave her off.

As the years passed, that bitter bantering turned into a cagey friendship, and that friendship became her offering ideas and plans and contingencies to the point where he believed she would take a fall for him. And because she'd become that loyal, that…trustful, even, he had faked his long and unfortunate breakdown. He'd meant to steer Red John away from them…from her…but he'd been lured by a lookalike, a woman picked out of thousands, groomed for him, for Patrick Jane alone. Someone he could fall for, a gift as she'd said. Wrapped up in brunette hair and doe-brown eyes, with just the right amount of damsel in distress attitude burning in her.

He knew what she was. But he didn't, at the same time. And every second he wanted her to be the one he really wanted…the one Red John seemed to want so badly too. Why make her ask for Lisbon's head otherwise? One test of loyalty for another?

Patrick remembered another time, when he told her he would do anything, knock down, take down, any one in his way…her included. He told her she'd be sorry, but he ate his words in turn. It wasn't until Dumar had the gun on her that he realized how empty that statement had been. Because without her he was nothing. Had nothing. Had no one to believe him, to believe in.

She truly was a saint.

He'd long ago canonized her in golds and emeralds and all the unattainable things he wanted so badly to give her. No one could surpass her.

Not even his late wife.

Feeling parched and sleepless from these circular thoughts, he made his way from the attic of the headquarters down to the kitchen. Everyone was gone of course, it was a Friday night, most had lives and families to return to. Only he was the ghost that loomed after hours, haunting the walls of CBI with his self-loathing grief.

So he thought.

He heard just the smallest stifled cry. One he recognized instantly. His heart skipped a beat.

Because he knew he was the cause of the sadness.

XOX

She was in that state of sleep where the outside world still dripped into the dreaming one.

A door opened, the smell of tea, a light sinking feeling near her feet. Then a soft tickle at her cheek, wetness.

It wasn't like she had good dreams lately.

Her eyes fluttered. A loose focus, hazy, and she saw her golden haired consultant sitting still as stone, a lonely, grim, look on his typically gleeful face.

"Jane? What's wrong?" she queried with the slur of sleep, brief as it was.

He shook his head, fearing to meet her eyes. "You were crying."

"N-no?" She whispered, confused, brushing at her eyes. She was. "Oh."

"How long?" He asked quietly.

Lisbon pulled herself into a cross-legged sitting position. "How long what?"

"How long have you been sleeping on the couch here in your office?"

Lisbon snorted softly, rolling her eyes. "Afraid I'll steal your glory as couch loner Jane?" she meant it to be candid, but it came out sad, angry, and distant. He cringed. She looked away then, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "Off and on…since you left."

He swallowed roughly. "I'm sorry. Truly, Lisbon, so, so terribly sorry."

"I know. I do. And in some ways I already forgave you for it. But there are other things, Jane…there are things I don't think I will be able to let go…" She trailed off softly, shrugging. How had they gotten to this point? She thought they were finally breaking through, reaching for the same solid goal. And then it was gone. A whisper of hope just out of her reach.

He nodded his acquiescence, sipped his tea.

What a pair. So broken by the pasts they couldn't release. They were a Shakespearean tragedy of their own stubborn making.

He kept strict focus on his tea as he spoke now, unflinching, angry. "Teresa, I know I can't leave you now, as I'm sure you've realized. After everything…I know it's going to be a lot to ask that you be more careful, more guarded then ever. He can't have you, my dear. I won't let him."

The last part was said so darkly that she actually_ feared _Patrick Jane for a moment. A shudder rippled through her, for those were the sincerest, most somber of words she was sure he'd ever uttered to her.

She had never missed the old Jane so much.

Jane stood, set his teacup on her desk, and head bent in nothing short of shame, made his way out of her office.

She merely sat in silence, watching this hollow man she had never met leave her side, her office, and her heart...

XOX

He watched from a distance. It was all as it was supposed to be. The time was coming, to be sure.

Good thing he was a patient man...

XOX

_Don't get too close_

_It's dark inside_

_It's where my demon's hide_

_It's where my demon's hide…_


	2. All The Sinners

**A/N:** chapter 2 is up, like I said…no plan, honestly. But if you have ideas, or ways you want me to take this..feel free to comment!

**Dark Red Demons**

_When the curtain's call_

_Is the last of all_

_When the lights fade out_

_All the sinners crawl_

_So they dug your grave_

_And the masquerade_

_Will come calling out_

_At the mess you made…_

It was a long two days before Teresa saw him again. Jane had a good habit of making himself scarce of late, even given the fact it had been three months since everything had crumbled around them. They'd all become well versed in pretending nothing had happened.

The cases came, the cases were solved, even with Jane lacking in his usual performance. There were no grand reveals, no wizards behind curtains, no parlor tricks or childish games, not a single complaint hit her desk. Not once was she called to be reprimanded for an action that reflected poorly against the CBI.

It became an odd environment, uneasy and dull. A constant darkness hung heavy above them all. The water cooler talk only served to upset her more. It was snippets here and there, rumors mostly. But it was that particular day that stood harshly apart from the rest because the two agents had no idea she stood behind them…and Teresa couldn't help but feel they spoke nothing less than truth.

"…And who would _want_ to be apart of her team anyway? They all either end up dead or wishing they were. She's insane, and so is he, and together they'll drag Grace and Wayne and Cho all down with them. I mean, do you think she cares? Christ, Wayne has a baby! I'm sure he'd like to see him grow up? And didn't Cho have a girlfriend for awhile? She's either obsessed with him, or she's a heartless bitch for continuing this pathetic, pointless manhunt."

"She's become a blemish on the CBI. God knows why they keep commending her actions? It's like they're cursed. Just look at the trail of bodies. That's a lot to atone for."

Teresa Lisbon was not a person to run from gossip, usually she'd fix it, nip it before it went wild. But this, clearly, was a fire all its own. She'd run that day. She hid in the safe confines of her office, shades drawn and door locked, and cried into her couch.

She hadn't meant to hear, but she now avoided the community kitchen as if it were the plague. Listening to it made her tired. Keeping it from her team even more so.

Lisbon told no one about the conversation.

No one was safe to trust.

XOX

For the most part, the team had gradually somewhat forgiven Jane. He'd made his half hearted attempts to plead for their mercy, and even now he could read the hesitance in their voices, stances, and eyes whenever they were forced to be partnered on a case.

Because of that hesitance, Lisbon typically took on Jane just to keep peace amongst her team. It was clear nothing would ever be the same again, and normal was gone.

And they still had not touched the conversation they both knew they needed to have.

They were in the midst of a particularly nasty case—an elementary school photographer had been abducting little blonde girls between the ages of seven and nine, keeping them for exactly five days, and then burying them in white dresses in shallow graves covered with daisies—the press was eating it up, calling him the Daisy Killer.

Just what she needed, a press-named serial killer.

They were currently staked out at his house, Van Pelt having made the school photography connection, and Cho found the flower vendor who sold the daisies to the man—providing them with the information they would need for the warrant.

Lisbon was wary to breech the house though—a girl was still unaccounted for, a Libby Adams, with exactly four hours to live by Jane's count.

They'd settled in for the long haul, half a block down. Rigsby and Cho were waiting for her call.

"Cho, we do have visual confirmation he's in there, right?" Lisbon radioed.

"Yes, his boss said he never worked Sundays, came to get his check and went home. It's his routine."

She sighed, forehead knotted, tapped her fingers on the steering wheel agitated about the sting. It didn't help Jane had been silent as the grave all night.

Suddenly her hand was squashed against the wheel. She jerked back, but Jane clutched her small hand in his, squeezing in odd intervals. Her eyes narrowed at his expressionless face. Well, what he thought was expressionless.

All the time he had claimed she was transparent was for naught. He'd come back from Vegas to find that she'd become a wall. It hurt him to realize that he could no longer read the pretty face of Teresa Lisbon.

But she could read his. And it was a trick she did not let him in on.

"What?" she demanded tersely. He shrugged.

"What's got you so twisted, Lisbon?"

She pulled her hand from its captor. "Something's wrong. I can feel it, okay? We're coming up on the deadline, and there's no activity in Matheson's house." Lisbon swallowed the bile building in her throat. "I want Libby to be okay."

It came out as whisper, and Jane's heart clenched. They didn't often have cases that dealt with children. Nor cases that involved little girls that likened to his daughter, Charlotte. He hadn't mentioned that fact, but he knew Teresa saw the deep dark fear when they'd been called to the Amy Thomas crime scene, all blonde curls, blue eyes, and pale, pale death.

"So do I Teresa, so do I," he said quietly. This time, she squeezed his hand for a different comfort. She understood. She always would.

"Boss, you there?" Cho said over the static, bringing both back to the living. "There's no movement, but the bedroom light is on. Should we go in? This kid only has ten minutes tops."

Eyes on Jane, as if looking for affirmation of the odd feeling she had, "Go, but be careful. Try not to startle him. We don't know where he's been keeping them Cho."

"Right Boss."

XOX

They burst through the yellow front door of Trevor Matheson's home, guns raised at the ready as they cleared the first floor. No basement, which left Rigsby relieved.

[_Really, does every serial killer have to have a creepy basement_?]

Cho took the lead up the stairs, Rigsby hot on his heels. The first bathroom was empty, as was the second, as well as the master bedroom. The last room was locked, the one with the light. Rigsby kicked the door in, and they breeched the room with vigor, hoping the girl was alive.

What they got, they did not see coming.

XOX

Lisbon was still in a state of downright nail biting agitation. Jane had half a mind to hypnotize her into a state of calm [and was about to tell her so] when they were interrupted again.

"Boss…you…you need to uh, see this…" Rigsby stuttered across the radio, shock evident in his voice.

Lisbon didn't respond. She jumped out of the car and summoned all of her high school track experience to straight sprint to the house. She didn't know whether Jane had bothered to follow or not—she didn't particularly care. All she could think about was the weeping mother and the devastated father of the last living little girl in that house, that she had promised to find her alive, that she would bring back their beautiful little girl.

And now she feared she was a liar, too.

She slammed into the doorjamb on her way in, but barely felt it as she took the stairs two at a time. Her lungs burned, and her shoulder throbbed now, but she met her team at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily, and saw how truly frightened these two brave members of her team were.

Cho grabbed Lisbon's arm, halting her entry. "Boss…it's bad…just…I don't how we missed it," he muttered, confused. And Cho, she knew, was rarely ever confused, and rarely ever touched her.

"Okay." She prepared herself, so she thought. Prepared to see a beautiful butchered little girl. But it wasn't that, not that at all that met her eyes and burned her soul and made her truly _hate_ for the first time in her memory.

She gasped, and gagged. Her heart stopped. Breathing became increasingly difficult. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from heaving [or screaming] at what surrounded her.

The Red Smile grabbed her sight first—as was his way. It stood bright on the glistening white wall. But that was not what made her want to flee. He'd never gone this far. This was a statement.

Lisbon heard a heavier huffing sound, and realized Jane must have just made it into the house. "Cho, Rigsby, keep him out!" she yelled, it sounded strangled and unlike her. He could not see this.

A scuffle and a cry from outside and Jane practically fell into the room unnoticed by Lisbon.

She knew when he realized what had happened. He stopped breathing. She had a long time ago.

"Oh my…" Jane trembled, pushing himself up.

The smile was just the focal point. The center. What surrounded it was horrifying.

Photos. Thousands of photos, scattered on the wall. All of one person. All of Teresa Lisbon. Each with its own individual smile painted over it. Knives jutted out of some of the photos. The same knife they knew he favored. A note was taped under the red face, but neither made a move to grab it. Mr. Trevor Matheson lay in pieces beneath the grim collection. This was a new rage. He'd never severed any of his victims, no matter how deep the cut.

Lisbon felt weak. Her empty stomach turned. She couldn't take any air in, even if the stench of blood came with it. The sleepless nights of the past nine months caught up in one swift blow. The white walls became whiter along the edges, sparkling like diamonds, and then the slant of dark followed after, and all she felt was falling.

XOX

Bright white again. Little flashes. Someone was whispering to her, fingers brushed through her dark hair.

She blinked against the harsh flashlight. "Where…?"

"Ambulance. Lisbon, you haven't been taking care of yourself. Your blood sugar was low, and your blood pressure dropped drastically, you had a panic attack…have you been sleeping?"

The questions came too quickly. "Jane…" she reached for his hand, tangled in her hair. "Was it real?" she whimpered.

He nodded. "Yes, Lisbon, yes it was." Her forehead was still clammy, and the paramedic told him to take her home, make her eat at least a candy bar and bread, and get some well overdue sleep. Jane assured the well-to-do paramedic named Steve that he would, but they all knew it wouldn't happen.

Partly because she would refuse to show that weakness. Partly because Jane managed to take the note before the Feds showed up, officially, once again, staking claim to the Red John scene. No matter, they'd retrieved a few photos, a knife, just in case. The note was for no one but Patrick to see. Patrick…and Teresa.

She mumbled something he didn't catch.

"Lisbon, shhh." He soothed. She'd hate him for it later. He held the hand she'd grasped, and placed the other on her cheek, drawing comforting circles. "Lisbon, you've been stressed. I'm not going to harm you, you can trust me, I promise. I will keep you safe, no matter what. Do you hear me? You can trust me. I want you to sleep now, think of good moments, pull them from your memory palace. I want you to focus on those good things." She seemed to release her bodies tense stance, easing into a state of peace. He continued to draw the circles, adding a tap here and there.

"Focusing…" she mumbled again. "sand…castle…pony…frog…"

Jane felt tears prick his eyes. Her memory palace held him at the center. The beach walks, the sand castle, the pony for her birthday and the joy she'd shown over such an elaborate gift [later taken to a lovely farm down the way that she visited every so often] and the little jumping origami frog he'd made her after royally screwing up.

When had they become so intertwined?

"You will think of these things, and be happy, and sleep." Her hand went limp in his, head lolled to the side. He leaned in, watching her lovely sleeping countenance before ever so softly placing a kiss to the bottom of her parted lips. "Sleep well, dear Teresa. We have monsters to catch in the morning."

XOX

"The Feds took over, won't let us pass. It's officially theirs, sorry Jane." Cho relayed.

Jane was not as affronted as they assumed. "No matter. Let them flounder with all of the nothing I left. I have what I need, it's enough for me."

"How's Boss?" Rigsby asked.

"She'll be mad in the morning. But right now she's in a nice deep sleep," Jane said with a quirk in both his eyes and his voice.

"You hypnotized her." Cho said flatly.

"Yes, yes I did."

"She's gonna be pissed," Cho added again.

"If boss starts quacking like a duck, we can't be held responsible for anything she does to you, you know that right Jane?" Rigsby smiled, trying to make light what they'd all witnessed.

"Eh, she needs the sleep," he shrugged with his 'pish-posh' air. Then his focus changed. "Did they find Libby?"

"No, and forensics and feds are on that house like bloodhounds. Do you think Red John took the girl? There's no real purpose in that."

"No…no he wouldn't take her. But then, there was no real purpose in killing a cornered serial sex offender either. It was a message to me, but it was also a message to Lisbon. Look, we need to set aside everything that's happened. I know you all have your grievances against me. But right now, Teresa is in a trouble you can't…fathom. He is going to come for her. I won't let him take her, I can't…lose her." He looked at the folded note, crushing it in his palm. "She means too much to me to lose."

Cho's always stoic expression remained so, but it held a glimmer of knowing. Rigsby nodded, held out his hand. "Just because we're forgiving you doesn't mean you're forgiven, but boss is in trouble…"

Jane took Rigsby's hand. "Well then, let's get Van Pelt and fill her in, and then, let's come up with a plan. We still have Lorelei to break. No more nice guy, no more games."

"Agreed." Cho and Rigsby replied in kind.

XOX

They were booted off the scene after their statements were taken. Paramedic Steve pulled Jane aside and asked if he wanted them to take the downed agent to her home. He declined vigorously, instead maneuvering her sleeping form into the back of her car, plucking the keys from her pocket, and drove them as quickly to headquarters as possible.

Cho and Rigsby had left earlier to fill in Van Pelt and gather all Red John case files before the feds confiscated them. Jane gave them specific orders not to speak to anyone else, and meet in the attic that he called his secondary home. It was the only place in CBI he felt secure.

And that's where they currently sat, puzzling over what connected a child killing sex offender to someone as cold and relentless as Red John.

"Not that he didn't do the world a favor," Grace muttered aloud, voicing what they all felt.

Rigsby piped in then. "I hear you Grace, but…you weren't there…there's a favor, and then there's just overkill."

"He's right. No one deserved that but the man who dealt it himself," Cho added for both of his team members benefits. "Jane, what does the note say."

"I, uh, not that I don't trust you all implicitly, because I do. But this is something Lisbon and I need to read first, if that's all right."

Cho gave a curt nod. "We don't like it, but we understand. Clearly, boss is the target."

Jane's gaze shifted to the beauty sleeping on the makeshift bed/cot Jane used as a bed. He knew that she'd be furious, scared, confused, when she awoke, but right now, all he could do was afford her the peace and the calm she needed.

Because it was all going to hell very soon. The note was the answer to what the three keen agents before him needed to know, but it was for he and Teresa alone, first.

Startled out of his thoughts by a hand to his shoulder, gentle, signifying Grace, he turned to acknowledge the lively redhead.

"You hurt her, terribly, you know that right? She wasn't the same after you disappeared. Even now, she changed. I think she held out hope that you would come back for her, but six months does a lot to a woman in love with someone who sleeps with a cocktail waitress friend of Red John. It may look like she's forgiven you, but she hasn't. She carries a lot more on her shoulders now. You don't know what they say about her in the break rooms and hallways. You haven't seen her cry. You haven't come back for your laptop to see her asleep on _your_ couch, Jane. But I have. Be careful, because Red John isn't the only being out there that can take her away Jane; just…be honest."

He had no words for Grace then. He wouldn't for a long time.

But he did know that one day, she'd be a wise leader.

"Hey, guys, security has something for us to see, says its urgent," Cho called.

"Grace…stay…" Jane began.

"I got her Jane, go, see what it's all about. I'll call if she wakes up."

"Thanks Grace."

XOX

Security had something urgent for them indeed.

A blood covered eight-year old girl in a white night dress, blonde locks matted and green eyes stark wide with fear, shock, and something else Jane couldn't place. She was shaking so hard that her teeth clicked violently together even though she was trying to speak, frozen ever so slightly in that awed state.

Jane knelt down in front of the girl, having managed to guide her inside. "Are you Libby?" he asked. She gave no response. "Libby, do you have a message for me?"

Nothing.

And nothing is what they got for two unbearable hours. She refused to eat, drink, change, or have the blood wiped off her face.

She sat mute.

Van Pelt helped Lisbon groggily make her way from the attic elevator down to the team. They had come to the consensus that the traumatized girl needed a female presence, and Lisbon was waking anyway.

They entered the room cautiously, so not to scare the jittery child. But that caution lasted until the girl saw Lisbon.

She screamed. A blood-curdling, animal sound that no child, no human, had ever made.

Lisbon froze. Cho and Rigsby clapped hands over their ears, and Van Pelt jumped higher than a pole vault champion. Jane opened his mouth and screamed over the small girl. Startled, she whipped back around to stare wide-eyed at Jane.

He cleared his throat. "Now, Libby, do you have a message for me?" she shook her head. Lisbon came forward, kneeling down like Jane.

"Libby, do you have a message for me?" Teresa asked calm, cool, collected.

She nodded slowly.

"Can you tell me what it is?"

"When the stars…th-threw down their spears, and water-ed heaven w-with their tears, did he smile his work to see, did he who made the lamb…make thee?"

Lisbon's face fell as the girl whispered the disjointed poem. She knew it. Long memorized, even. William Blake. _The Tyger_. Libby gazed at Lisbon sadly, as if the girl knew what was in store for the beautiful raven-haired woman. Libby turned to Jane then, leaning in closer still.

"Tyger, Tyger, Mr. Jane."

XOX

_Well done_, he thought. Let them writhe in fear of what was coming. Let them make their plans and get their guns at the ready.

He was unstoppable.

Pride was his sin.

XOX

_Don't want to let you down_

_But I am hell bound_

_Though this is all for you_

_Don't want to hide the truth…_


	3. The Siren's Call

**A/N:** chapter 3 is up, kinda sad I'm not getting reviews! [hint] am I losing my touch? Say it isn't so! Obviously the _Tyger _poem by William Blake is a revisit to when RJ ultimately [saved?] him and the meaning behind it. I wanted to put it in the story, because if memory serves he NEVER told Lisbon about it…and btw, I know RJ is 'just a man' and 'we may have seen him' but who thinks Bertram is creepy as F***? He'd be a great candidate all things considered after he spoke of his fave poem by Blake in the second season. Wiggy. Also, I wanted the little girl to relay the message, because honestly what is creepier than a kid reciting a poem on the instruction of a killer after being traumatized?

**Dark Red Demons**

_No matter what we breed_

_We still are made of greed_

_This is my kingdom come_

It took Jane an hour to calm Libby. Longer still to remove the dark thoughts placed in her head by Red John, the trauma of what she'd seen and what had happened to her in that house. They'd never truly know what happened, when, or why there was a connection to Red John. That…and Red John rarely if ever left a witness—the girl served a purpose.

And Patrick would make sure she never remembered it.

She would get to start over, unlike him. He remembered months before, the little girl that came to him in the cemetery. He took her memories too. He let her live, losing the clues he could have taken, could have used to get closer to the man he hunted.

"Jane, Libby's parents are here," Cho called, with a slight knock on the door. Jane nodded.

Patrick tapped Libby's shoulder a final time. "Libby, my name is Patrick Jane, you got lost coming home from school. You're okay though, the police found you and called your parents. Your mom and dad are here for you know."

Libby smiled widely, but her eyes were glazed. "Thank you Mr. Jane. I don't know how I got lost."

"Me neither, Libby. Next time be more careful, okay?"

The little girl nodded, blonde curls bouncing. Van Pelt had cleaned her up after she'd given her message to Lisbon. They'd given her a large CBI tee to wear, neither wanting to lend trauma to her parents, nor reawaken the images implanted in her compliant mind.

She stood, reaching for Jane's hand. He hesitated before taking the small, pale hand in his own. He led her to her parent's, all the while thinking how beautiful his daughter would be if she still lived. Fifteen…she'd be nearly fifteen…

"Oh my god, Libby!" her mother screamed, dropping to her knees before her daughter.

"Mommy!" Libby cried gleefully, arms encircling her neck.

Jane smiled at the scene, before pulling her father aside. "Sir, mind if I speak with you a moment?"

"Yes, anything, we just…she's back, is she going to be okay?"

"Well yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. What she witnessed was…something no one ever should. I realize I should not have done this without your consent…but for her own protection, for yours, I've implanted her with a small thought, a false memory—I led her to believe she got lost on her way home for school. It would behoove you and your lovely wife to be mindful of that."

The man stared at Jane curiously, then, "so you're saying…she won't remember what happened to her, she'll carry on as if this didn't happen?"

"Yes. She can be…normal."

He smiled uneasily…but tiredly, and Jane knew he would never dispute the hypnosis, nor complain to the CBI about what Jane had done.

"Okay."

XOX

Lisbon stared blankly at the wall. She couldn't face Libby, she couldn't face Libby's parents, and moreover, she couldn't face her team.

Everything was falling apart. Hell, she was falling apart. She tried to collect herself, tried to put on that brave face they all knew so well, tried to brush off being the target of a deranged serial killer with a shrug and an 'I carry a gun,' punchline that Jane seemed to think the most inadequate statement to come from her mouth ever.

And speaking of mouth…she couldn't help the inkling of thought that she'd been kissed while she slept so soundly. Her fingertips went to her bottom lip—oh she knew she'd been hypnotized. Rigsby folded like a deck of cards.

They just didn't know that she'd been hypnotized before—last time though she'd woken with the urge to dance to her spice girls CD—this time she had only the desire to hold onto that silly paper frog.

The door to the attic squealed open, and she jumped, shoving the frog deep into her pocket.

"Lisbon. Are you okay?" her golden haired consultant asked, quietly crossing to the cot she sat on, gently sitting beside her but still keeping his distance.

"No. No, Jane, I'm really not."

He looked down at his hands, tangling, untangling. He really had no words to say, and claiming sorrow only served to upset her. "I sent the others home, they shouldn't be here." Instead he pulled the crushed, bloodied note from his pant pocket, held it out for her. "It's written to us."

Lisbon took the note, carefully unfolding its battered edges, and began to read aloud:

_Dear Mr. Jane and the lovely Miss Lisbon_

_I see you are stressed. Let me help you out. I've taken care of your killer for you, and I've left you with the girl that I must say looks so much like your dear Charlotte, Patrick. I'd like for the two of you to get your priorities straight. This game is fun, but I'm wearing thin on patience. Lorelei is your gift Patrick, you may keep her. But I still require my gift in return, Teresa will be a lovely addition don't you think? Be seeing you soon._

_Red John _

She sniffed softly, but remained still as stone. "There's nowhere I can run, is there? He will find me. He will kill me. I…I can't stop it, can I?" Teresa lamented in a tone Patrick Jane thought he'd never hear from this fearless, wonderful woman. She had been afraid before. But not like this.

Jane swallowed the lump in his throat and willed the tears that threatened to fall to stay put. Their roles were reversed. It was she who needed protection, reassurance, someone to cry on. It was something she had never asked him, or anyone he was sure, for before. She wasn't asking for it now either.

He grabbed her hand, clenched it so hard several bones popped. "_I_ can stop it. _I_ will stop it."

She laughed humorlessly. It was dark and dry. "And what are _you_ going to do to stop it Jane?" it came out as a shrill sneer, and he felt the dig deep in his soul. "Are you going to hypnotize him into submission? Are you gonna pull a gun out of a hat? No. You're not. Because you're as helpless as I am."

She shook her head. "Just do this one thing for me Jane—please—I have letters, to everyone, the team, my brothers. I wrote them all a long time ago. I think I knew. It was only a matter of time before he'd want me, and I figured I should have a plan, you know? I mean, here I am, pushing forty soon, alone, no kids, no husband. I never pictured this for my life." Lisbon looked at him, really looked at him, the same burning question in her eyes since the faked shooting, the conversation they never seemed to have. "Was it ever too much to ask?"

He was never so ashamed. Here she was, asking him in no uncertain terms why he couldn't make his move, make a life, with her. He still couldn't. They were so irrevocably chained to each other that it seemed ridiculous not to assume it. This strange symbiosis they shared would kill them. His obsession had become hers along the way, and no penance would atone for the guilt that he had dragged her into this awful world. She should never have joined him in it.

"_Nobody is better off alone…"_ That's what Hightower had said to him before she kissed his cheek and disappeared away_. "You have your work cut out for you…"_ Kristina Frye pointedly nodded to Lisbon; the way in which it was said bore a prophetic future though.

A future he was sure they would never get to have.

Away in the dark attic, just the two alone, though, maybe he could give something of himself to her. Anything to give her hope, even if it remained short lived. But words were not convincing as he'd proved months before, and actions scared him even more. He truly had nothing to give.

"No, Teresa, it is not too much to ask for, and you deserve everything, _everything_. And I so _badly_ wish to be the one that gives you everything you want—the family you should have, the life—but I know I can't, and so do you."

The tears streamed unchecked down pale, red-patched cheeks. "Right Patrick, definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results—I'm used to that. I can bear it, you not wanting me; it's the fact that you do want me, and you're just too scared to, what? Try? Give up your wife's memory? Because you can't be afraid of losing me, Patrick. One day I will be gone. What will you have then?"

What she didn't add, he knew, was _and it could be sooner than later…_

The tears came faster now, and the gut-wrenching sobs broke through, the ones she'd try to hold back from the months he'd been gone, from the words he'd said and had yet to say, Lorelei's bitter, jealous sentiments, the thousands of photos of her with the red blood smiles splattered and dripping.

He pulled her into him, grasping her as tightly as humanly possible. His own tears fell into her raven hair as he stroked her back. He didn't want to think of this life without her. She believed in him in a way even Angela had not, loved him for all his flaws and his cons and his former life, which his wife had never been able to overcome, had desperately tried to steer him away from.

"Teresa, my love, I will keep you safe. I will. That is a promise."

They remained that way for hours. Her heartbreaking sobs had softened, turned into whimpers and silent tears. Only the subtle tell of dawn dared peek through the window.

"Jane," she slurred once more, eyes closed, remnants of tears shimmering on her lashes. He gently squeezed her upper arm. "Jus' in case..." she trailed the quiet sentence, sleep claiming her.

"I know, Teresa. I know."

XOX

She awoke sometime past noon on Saturday on Jane's cot.

Alone though, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Her heart sunk a little. As she cleared the sleep from her eyes and the room came into focus she noticed a coffee mug, little puffs of white steam emanating from it indicating it was recently placed there. She smiled a little at that, but the guilt crept back quickly. She would always fear he'd leave her again.

"Well morning there, sleeping beauty."

Lisbon jumped out of her skin again. "Jane, you have got to stop doing that. I swear one of these days I will shoot you."

"That wouldn't be very nice Lisbon. After all, I brought you coffee. Had to get more tea from the market down the way though—I'm getting peeved that the pregnant woman in payroll keeps stealing my tea." He muttered irritatingly, and she could do nothing but laugh lightly at the childish tone.

Patrick looked up, startled, a strange look on his face.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing, it's just…I don't think I've heard you laugh…ever. It's lovely."

"I laugh!" she exclaimed affronted by this notion, crossing her arms defensively.

His smile lost some of the shine. "Not enough."

Teresa chose to ignore the comment. She switched topics, pushing her tear-dampened hair out of her face. She had to take a shower, badly. She cringed, hating that she looked anything but professional, even just pretty, in front of Jane. Because of course he looked great—shining Greek god and all.

"It's Saturday Lisbon, no need to fret about your appearance. In fact, I have to say your complexion looks refreshed after all the waterworks."

She scowled at him.

It seemed, regardless of her impending doom and all of last nights near confessions, they were still able to poke and prod and banter. That, or it was his intention to pretend it hadn't happened at all.

Lisbon sighed. But it had. And words once spoken could never be taken back.

She was about to mention something about his irksome avoidance issues when the sharp ring of her cell phone sliced crudely through the attics soft gray silence. She had to dig around the tangled bed sheet to find the device, and answered it just before it hit her voicemail.

"Lisbon," she offered as a hello. Jane wandered about the room, as he did anywhere he was. It was his tick, like the twirling of hair or chewing of the lip. He was also gauging her expression, the lilt of her voice, as if trying to measure a guess as to whom she was speaking on a Saturday. "Wait…w—slow down, so, she says she's willing to speak to…just me?"

Disgust was the first thing he could hear. Irritation just after.

"Right, yes, will do. Thanks for the heads up Gary." She hung up the phone, looked up to see her consultant towering over her curiously. Geez, how was he_ that silent_?

His smile was bitter. "The siren speaks?"

She nodded. "Only to me."

His eyes hardened, face darkened, lips downturned. He was uneasy, edgy. She was no less.

Jane remained so even as they drove to the secure facility.

XOX

Lisbon knew the moment she'd seen this siren seductress that she looked the way she did for a purpose, but it still confused the agent. The deep chestnut hair just shy of raven, skin slightly tanner, more mocha with a touch of cream than plain milk, the height was measurably the same, but it was the stark difference in eyes that changed the mirror: bright, lively, determined emerald, opposing the sly, cunning, doe-eyed damsel brown.

Red John had groomed Lorelei for Jane, yes. He'd groomed her to look as much like Lisbon as possible. A monkey could see that.

But far as Teresa Lisbon had ever known, her consultant had gone for the flaxen haired, blue-eyed beauty that was his wife. An absolute image of angels that Teresa had always pictured as a child in church.

Honestly, she figured he would have used a woman closer to the portrait of his wife then his friend, his boss, his….

Why not cut where it hurt the most?

Teresa shoved the thoughts back, closed her eyes and braced herself for this requested meeting.

Oh how she despised the bitch.

She pushed through the door, hearing the lock click so final behind her. Lorelei was not someone Lisbon would ever fear, but it was the words and the ways she used to manipulate that angered her the most. That, and like most Red John Minions, they only loosed their secret spells before the noose was knotted and the false bottom opened to let them hang.

That, or solitary was finally getting to the chatty cocktail waitress.

Lisbon pulled the folding chair away from the solid table that chained Lorelei.

"Long time Agent Lisbon, looks like you've let yourself go a bit," the tart jab came before Lisbon had been able to orient herself, and she halted a moment, realizing she was quite disheveled and worn. Probably a good thing she had not showered, she would always need one after leaving here.

Lisbon made for a quick recovery. She knew Jane watched from the mirrored window. As did Lorelei. "Yeah, well, it's Saturday, and I'd planned on…well…sleeping in," Lisbon huffed, just flirty enough with a casted glance at the mirror. "And at least I don't have to attempt to pull off prison suit orange."

It worked. The smallest hint of something between her and Jane scandalized Lorelei. The look she shot Teresa was scathing. But just like that the look shuttered and the switch flicked back to the saccharine voice and rude remarks.

"How is my lover doing, Teresa? Because I'll tell you this, the last thing he's doing is you," she bit. Straight for the jugular.

Jane winced behind the thick glass.

"Why wouldn't he, exactly, Lorelei? I mean, he slept with you after all…I would definitely need a palate cleanser after _that_."

Clearly this was not going to end well.

Anger bubbled toxically from both women, sitting in mirrored positions, but ready to strike.

Lorelei smiled, it was feral and cruel. "Oh, silly girl," she began, as if pacifying a teenager with a crush, "because no one wants to screw a dead woman. I know you're running on borrowed time. How long do you think you have Teresa? A month? A week? Before he comes for you?"

Teresa blanched, feeling the strange, hollow feeling return, the same one she'd had at Matheson's house. The one that signified everything had gone completely awry.

"He'll come to collect soon. He always gets what he's owed, dear. Even you know it's inevitable. But maybe you can answer this for me…it does bother me so why Red John wants _you_ so badly. Honestly you're not much to look at. You're plain, barely qualify as pretty, you could do some much more with your looks but you don't." Lorelei shifted her gaze, glaring under hooded eyelids through the two-way glass. "From what Red John told me, Angela was devastatingly beautiful. You just don't compare. Must be hard, Teresa, fighting a ghost for his love."

Lisbon had sat in cold, hard, horrified silence. She hadn't felt this picked apart since high school—a loner, always, with no mother to teach her the ways of eyeliner and lipstick and curling irons—and all of those girls, the beautiful swans knew it.

She could hear no more. The anger had morphed into rage, and the hot tears fell, plop, plop, plop, onto the tabletop. Rage, because the crazy bitch was right. The golden circle on his finger told her she'd never compare—damned if she try.

Fists clenched so hard her nails bit into the soft flesh, drawing half moons of blood, Teresa let the wrathful part of herself she'd kept restrained in front of this woman for so long emerge—

-Lorelei's scream echoed down the halls. And Lisbon's only comfort as she fled the room, the building, ignoring the calls from Jane and security, until she hit the outside and could feel the warm breeze on her skin like she used to when she ran track years ago, was the delicious, sickening crunch of a hundred bones shattering in Lorelei Martin's nose.

XOX

She rarely hid, but lately it's all she seemed to do. She hid from the gossips in the kitchen at the CBI, hid her love for Jane in a deep dark spot in her memory palace, and now she was hiding from the man himself.

Breaking a murderous suspects nose was far from 'commendation' and probably hinted more at 'blemish' but damn, it felt wonderful; to the point where sad and angry transformed into a kind of giddy maniacal laughing that couldn't be stopped.

That's how Jane found her, on a bench a mile from where they'd started.

"Hey there, Mike Tyson, you're insane."

She slowed her laugh, shook her head. God, she was so fed up playing second fiddle to a ghost, third to a crazed cocktail waitress, fourth to a black widow, fifth to a psychic who could only be contacted via Ouija board…

"Yes, insane. But validated. Because everything your whore said in there was true."

She stood from the bench, refusing his eyes, but wanting to be on the same level, grasping for control.

"You really think so little of me Teresa?" he demanded bitterly. His edges were hard and stony. Now for the big guns. Now let the grown up fight begin.

"I don't know what to think anymore _Patrick_!" Lisbon screamed. All out, she thought, in is bad, out is good. "In ten years you've given me nothing to the contrary; Jesus, you wear a ring for a dead woman, Jane," she swallowed, more tears came, they fell, and she carried on, whispering, "What will you wear for me?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

She'd be dead before she got one.

XOX

Drained was an understatement. She wanted to drown herself in the tempting bottle of scotch that lovingly called out to her.

As a child she was happy, gleeful, joyful, bright, merry, and every word descriptive of a child. As the years sped past the fairytales of childhood, into teenage years and adulthood…well, to be this embroiled in evil, death, darkness, it was sickening that she was so fantastically destined to fill this role.

The role of sacrifice, where the hero dies and the princess is locked away, forgotten, and the wicked sorcerer wins.

Truly fitting.

No one ever hears about those tales.

She flicked her bedroom light on.

She saw the red face.

Grabbed for a gun that wasn't there.

Saw a mask, heard a voice.

Then Teresa Lisbon saw nothing at all.

XOX

_This is my kingdom come…_


	4. Only Good Things

**A/N:** chapter 4! Thank you my lovely reviewers! I appreciate the comments! I'm sad now, I've been re-watching season 4 in anticipation of 5 as a refresher [something I usually do with my favorite shows] and I just realized how much I actually liked Wainright's character. RIP. Oh, I also find it funny that the CBI boss position is as cursed as the Dark Arts Teacher position at Hogwarts…

**Dark Red Demons**

_When you feel my heat_

_Look into my eyes_

_It's where my demons hide_

_It's where my demons hide_

_Don't get too close_

_It's dark inside_

_It's where my demons hide_

Patrick paced the small confines of the CBI attic Lisbon had left him in before rushing home—putting as much possible distance between them as she could. The words Lorelei said, the words Lisbon said, they all echoed endlessly across his cluttered mind.

He wanted to reassure Lisbon so much that Lorelei was wrong. She would never be plain, never unbeautiful in his eyes. Her trust and faith and complete belief in him made her more absolutely beautiful than a thousand models ever could dream to be.

Lorelei knew just how to dig into a mind until she struck gold, and with the state Lisbon had been in as of late, the manipulative temptress knew just what to say to provoke a reaction.

Jane sighed heavily, looked up through the attic and asked for a help he never believed in. A help he didn't deserve. He did not pray. He did not believe enough to think that some glorified entity would reach down to help him. He couldn't believe like she did.

His face dropped to his awaiting palms. "Angela…what do I do?" he asked instead.

Because asking her was far easier.

XOX

It was well into the dusk hours that Patrick Jane made the increasingly familiar drive to see Lisbon and settle everything.

Once and for all. No more secrets.

When he'd returned from his initial six month hiatus, he'd had nothing to return to. She'd taken him home, despite her anger, sadness, grief, and given him a key and allowed him to sleep on her couch until he got back on his feet in California.

He brushed a hand through his unruly gold curls, fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked her front door. He thought about getting himself a cup of tea, after all she knew his favorite brand and how to make it just right.

He felt so at home here—something else he couldn't bear to tell her.

It was a modest little place, Teresa Lisbon was not one for grandiose things and no amount of diamonds would ever win her over.

Maybe that's why he loved her. She was happy with her friends, her team, him, and all of the paper frogs he could possibly make her.

He smiled to himself and made his way up her stairs. She was probably taking the well-deserved bath she complained about wanting on the way to see Lorelei.

"Hey, Lisbon," He called, making his way down the small hallway to her room.

The words he'd come to say died on his lips. The small grin vanished.

He was hurtling back ten years, faking psychic abilities, mocking a killer who left a note on the door and death beyond it.

The note was the same, pinned to her door now. He wanted to leave, rewind the day, never go see Lorelei, tell Lisbon how he felt so she wasn't alone and vulnerable and _gone_.

But that wasn't the case.

He approached the door, all the fear flashing before him. No, she was not dead. No. No. _No_.

He swallowed hard as he read the note—dared not touch it lest he make it real. What was more, this sick man had left her gold cross hanging around the pin, the one thing she wore so resolutely. He wouldn't even let her have her hope as he tortured her then.

This was a different note though, and it made his blood boil and gave him courage that she was still, maybe, alive.

_And the lord said take this, in memory of me._

_Happy hunting, Mr. Jane_

Patrick palmed the gold cross; it weighed heavy in his hand.

"_What will you wear for me?"_

It was as if Red John was everywhere. All around. All the time.

A private conversation he could not have heard in the middle of nowhere.

He wore the gold ring for Angela Ruskin-Jane.

He wore the gold cross for Teresa Lisbon.

He took the note, left, not daring enter the bedroom. That was too much.

That, he knew, would break him.

He knew she was not there anyway.

Next, he called the team.

XOX

Teresa woke slowly. Her head throbbed, pulsing painfully from her temple to her ear. Everything was fuzzy, loud, slow, strange.

—then she began to remember what happened.

The fight she had with Jane.

Punching Lorelei in the nose.

Home. Bedroom. The blood red face on the wall. The masked man.

Red John.

The initial panic came sooner and faster than she anticipated. Breathing became rapid and shallow, the edges closed darkly like last time. She tried to impart some of Jane's calming techniques.

_Reach into your memory palace,_ he'd say in his soothing voice. _Only good things. Think of only the good things. Paper frogs, Annie [not Annabeth], dancing to The Spice Girls, dancing with Jane to "More Than Words" because no one ever asked you, Christmas with her three crazy brothers…_

Once she managed to stabilize her breathing, she embraced another Jane trait: observance. No sound. Nothing. The air smelled stale, unused, possibly only recently occupied. No windows. Basement, maybe? Rigsby would love that.

From what she could tell, she was at least fairly comfortable. Red John had had the decency to cuff her to a bed at the very least. She still remained clothed, gray Henley shirt and dark wash jeans, untouched, and she sighed with relief. It worried her, slightly, that her socks and boots had been removed. She knew why…she just wasn't ready to cope with that yet.

The downside of her position on the bed, nice as it was, was that she wasn't free to move; while her legs were not tethered to anything, each hand was cuffed to a post of the twin-sized bed, while her head rested on two pillows. Other than the bed she lay on, and the door across, no other furniture existed in the space. That in itself was unnerving.

In the midst of her observance, she missed the door opening.

"Well, well, Miss Lisbon, nice to see your lovely green eyes. I'd hoped I didn't hit you too hard. Would have been quite a pity."

She couldn't bring herself to look at him, he had the mask on anyway, that she knew. The voice was unfamiliar.

"You're going to kill me anyway, why would that matter?" Lisbon spat.

"Well, you see, it's a process, what I do," he began, and Lisbon couldn't help think he spoke of the way he killed like someone would tell you how to clean a pool filter. "By now, Patrick must have found the note, and clearly realized you must be alive—it is so very hard for him to fight with you, dear. You're all he really has."

She glared at the cruel man through her lashes, looking ever more like a petulant child.

All Red John could do was laugh. "Now I know why he thinks you so beautiful; you truly are quite stunning when angered."

"Do you always talk to your victims this much? What makes you think I have any desire to talk to you?" It truly perplexed the agent as to why the psychopath felt like making idle chit chat.

"Because you are special, Miss Lisbon. You are the last thing linking Patrick Jane to this horrible world! You keep him sane. To take that away…again…"

Red John edged closer then. She could feel his eyes slashing through her skin already.

"Yes. Yes, I do think, Miss Lisbon, that you will be my final act…"

It was then she caught the glint in the overhead light. The blade, like the ones through the pictures, like the one that cut Matheson into pieces, that sliced apart Angela and Charlotte, the one that would cut her apart as well, came down on her left arm.

He made only thin, shallow cuts. Just until the light rivulets of blood followed the silver tip, starting from the top of her shoulder, just before the veins of her wrist. Tears flooded her eyes. It was as if she was being tortured by millions of paper cuts.

These were cuts that would not kill her. They were the kind meant to _break_ her. Damned if she'd end up only communicable by a candlelight séance. If that were so she'd rather be dead. He made two more long cuts before moving to the right arm—changing it up and pulling the blade crosswise, shorter, deeper.

One tear fell. Then another.

His laugh echoed throughout the small room.

She felt hot breath next to her ear. "How is your _faith_ now, Miss Lisbon?"

And just as quickly as he'd come, he was gone.

She smiled, regardless of wherever it was she was, whatever he would do to her. She would not give the psycho the satisfaction. She made herself that promise. If he was going to cut her up…well, she was at least going to piss him off while he was doing it.

She also realized, running his parting sentence through her mind, her mother's gold cross no longer resided around her neck.

Only then did she truly cry.

XOX

Van Pelt was practically inconsolable. Rigsby looked as if someone kicked his puppy. Cho was stoic, but he worried his lip at such a consistent pace Jane was waiting for it to bleed any moment.

They let the FBI go to Lisbon's house. See what they could find. None of them had the heart nor the stomach to go through her stuff…her life…

They all sat still as stones in the attic. Cho was the first to speak.

"What's the plan? We all know the FBI is too slow and too unfamiliar with Red John. We also know that we can no longer trust or rely on anyone outside this team."

Jane nodded. It was not going to be easy, they all knew. The master of plans before them had none. And every Red John plan he'd ever had…failed. And this time he could not afford fail.

"This is all true…we have few options here, though. We 're going to have to trust someone. I have a few strings I can pull…"

"Or yank?" FBI agent Susan Darcy queried, leaning against the doorframe. The four team members whipped around, but made no attempt to confront the agent. She sighed. "Look—I know you're all suspicious of my actions, my agency, etcetera. I know you trust me as far as you can throw me, maybe less. But I'd like to let you in on something not even you, Mr. Jane, know of."

"Oh…Susan, what would this be?"

She smirked, but it was neither unkind, nor meant to mislead. "Well, had you any idea, any at all, that your Agent Lisbon and I were working together?"

When she was met with silence, and a slightly irritated scowl from Patrick, she knew she'd struck a nerve.

"Since I can clearly see on your face that the Great Patrick Jane had no clue, we have a lot to talk about. Lisbon and I have been working on the Red John identity since your 'breakdown,' Patrick." Susan Darcy pushed off the doorframe, knowing she had a captive audience within the attic. "Don't be offended," she said to the team, knowingly. "It wasn't personal, I think Teresa knew he was gunning for her, and what with Lorelei asking for her head on a silver platter, it's clear she wasn't wrong. But let's start at the beginning, shall we…"

XOX

Patrick Jane was utterly flabbergasted. Maybe he had truly lost his touch after Vegas. How had he not seen it? How had he not known his best friend was cohorting with the FBI? He, Mr. Observant himself, hadn't picked up on the clandestine meetings, quiet phone calls, or frequent "management briefs" she'd often ducked into.

Teresa Lisbon certainly was no longer so transparent as she'd been before this mess. He missed that.

For nine, nearly ten months, she'd been lying to him, or as he liked to think, conveniently leaving out the whole truth. She'd contacted Susan Darcy after their faked death plan had subsequently blown up in their faces and she'd arrested them. With all suits dropped, Lisbon had called a meeting with the FBI agent, and had a literal heart to heart. They met weekly, sharing perspectives, ideas, possible identities, possible 'friends' and ways that yet another potential mole or leak could be caught, trapped.

He was no longer the only one that had become a master of secret keeping.

It had not amounted to all that much, but Darcy, unbeknownst to Jane and the team had been chipping away at their captive cocktail waitress's resolve. It hadn't been hard once they'd found the root of her devotion. A slip up in her speech, really.

Which was why he and Darcy, the team watching behind the mirrored glass window, were currently interrogating Miss Lorelei Martins now.

Again.

And this time, no one was leaving without answers.

Given the enormous pout on the vile witch before him, she knew she was cooked.

Her broken nose, which sported quite a nice purple/black/blue tinge beneath its white bandage made him smile in a sick delight.

"How's your nose, Lorelei? Are we feeling a little…_plain_, perhaps, un-pretty, given the circumstance?" He questioned.

She practically hissed, but even in her abject hatred she managed to control her voice as she spoke. "I hope your Teresa Lisbon dies a horrifyingly painful death at the hands of my savior, Lover. By now he's started cutting—cutting scars into her flesh, making her ugly. Will you want her when she's so damaged, Patrick?"

She saw only him, he only her in that moment.

"Yes."

Beyond the glass, Van Pelt's hand covered her mouth, not so much in surprise, but more from a tragic standpoint of this [somewhat] unrequited romance between her friends. She knew it was only a matter of time. She'd seen the changes since their boss had lost him. Disparate, despondent. Sad.

Cho, too, seemed unmoved by the confession. He was probably the most perceptive of them all.

Rigsby remained the only one confused. Of course, he was not one to meddle unless at Jane's behest. He had his own rocky romance to see through.

This seemed to surprise the prisoner though, this confession of sort. Lorelei sneered, disgust forming in the lines of her lovely face.

"Careful, a face so sour will stick," Patrick taunted darkly. Darcy simply observed the showdown. This was nothing new to her.

"What did you come here for Lover? Do you suspect I will spill my secrets to save your Teresa? See, it won't happen, because I'd have to care to do that. You'd have to break me for that."

"No. Susan's told me that you are quite unbreakable. No, my dear, we've come to set you free."

It was the first time he'd seen the manipulative woman's doe-eyes flashed fear. Brief as it was. She knew what her fate would be.

"Scared, _Lover_?" Patrick whispered, hatred coating his voice.

Lorelei swallowed thickly, eyes averted. She was safe in these walls, looked over by only those vetted by Patrick and Teresa themselves.

"I…I can't leave. He will never take me back. You know that!" she shrieked, pitch rising.

"I know. I just don't care." Patrick stood, Darcy standing and pulling the key from her pocket to unlock Lorelei's cuffs.

"NO! You can't do this! You know he'll kill me!" Lorelei cried as the cuffs fell from her wrists. "I'm your gift, you can't give me back!"

Susan led her by the arm through the interrogation room door, met by the rest of the team.

He couldn't take it anymore. Jane grabbed her arm roughly, his other hand around her neck, bruising, pushed her against the wall behind them. The team made no move to assist.

"Tell me where she is, Lorelei. If you have any sense of mortality, you will tell me this. If not, I will feed you to your _savior_ live on camera. They do so love me after all—and you've been so cooperative..."

She gasped as he clenched her delicate throat. "F-fine."

He released her, shook himself of the darkness. He'd had to bring a force like that up from a place he tried not to visit often. He did it for her.

"Well, isn't that better now," he said with a sadistic smile. "Let's have a cup of tea, shall we?"

XOX

She marked the hours by the cuts.

By her count, he cut her seven times every hour—alternating deep and shallow—and she knew he was showing an uncharacteristic restraint. He wanted her teetering on the edge of death when Jane found her, if he found her, so he could watch her drift away.

By her count, she had forty-nine cuts on her once unmarred flesh, zig sagging down her arms and legs, jeans ruined by the tears and shirt stained by her blood.

She gasped for small puffs of air. It hurt to breathe, to move. The dried blood of the first cuts cracked and exposed the sting to the stale air surrounding her.

The door opened.

Eight hours.

Seven new cuts.

"Jane…" she cried.

XOX

_It's where my demons hide._


	5. Let Me Go

**A/N:** chapter 5! Wow, I just realized I couldn't write fluff to save my life! I actually, truly, meant this to be slightly fluffier than it became. Sigh. Well, for the love of angst I hope its good. I also like my characters in character—I've tried before, and I cannot write OOC pieces. I feel this is a good thing as I have been writing stories since I was 15, nothing published, just what I write on here under a pseudonym. I love getting so invested in characters and learning their traits and tricks. I have my own ideas compiled away, hoping one day to write a whole book series. Dare to dream?

**Dark Red Demons**

_They say it's what you make_

_I say it's up to fate_

_It's woven in my soul_

_I need to let you go…_

Lorelei broke.

She was a cowardly slave led by a monstrous mad man. While she could be reprimanded for that, like a child following a bully in fear of being hurt for her defiance, it would not change the fact that she had a weak, easily manipulated mind. The kind evil preyed on. She'd been conned for so long she didn't know right from wrong any longer. She did know life from death, and she'd chosen wisely.

She wasn't a fool, after all. Self-preservation was something she'd learned long ago.

It kept her alive on the streets. In the beds of wicked men after her body. In the clutches of Red John.

She could not be faulted for merely wanting to stay alive.

She was a leech, but a leech that knew who to cling to survive.

Right now, she clung to Patrick Jane.

XOX

The smell of her own blood made her want to vomit.

She could practically taste it in the air, floating in strange suspension, the copper penny scent of iron-rich blood.

Eighty-four cuts.

Twelve hours of pain, of new slivers over old.

Teresa was running out of room for the cuts.

Red John was running out of patience.

XOX

Patrick knew the clock was ticking on her life. He remained optimistic; Jane had a feeling that if she were gone…well, he would have felt it in his bones.

At least, he hoped they were that inextricably linked.

Grace was currently looking for property foreclosures, empty warehouses, or month-to-month rentals for possible locations, given Lorelei steered them into that realm. She said he never remained anymore for more than a month, but that meant nothing other than he was able to acquire property quickly. And more than likely, under an assumed name.

Van Pelt kept the filters for offenders constantly rotating. Not long ago Red John had contacted the team via an IM.

And now he was once again. It startled her when her computer went black, and rebooted to a small message box.

"Uhhh…Guys…I think you all need to see this!" Grace shouted over the buzzing din of the team.

They rushed over as the message sprung with the tinkling sound of a bell. Red John wasted no time.

"He's writing, I think he hacked into my computer…" she trailed off, either appalled or astounded that someone had the gall to do that.

Darcy was calling her superiors, demanding a trace that Jane knew would bounce around towers and lead nowhere. But he let her do it anyway—he understood the cold comfort.

"What does it say?" Cho queried, arms crossed.

"Umm…'What's black and white and red all over?'" Van Pelt read softly, fearing, like all, that she did not want to know the answer.

Jane was silent. Rigsby ground his teeth.

Another bell-like tinkle from the computer. Van Pelt swallowed hard.

"Grace?" Rigsby questioned.

"It, uh…it's an image file," she said carefully.

"Open it." Jane said flatly. Numbly.

Grace shook her head, leaving her seat suddenly. "No. I choose not to see what he wants us to see. You open it, I don't have a such a morbid fascination with death, with this game—if boss is gone, I want to remember her the way she should be remembered!"

Without a word more, Grace left the room in a furious state muttering something about coffee.

Rigsby made a move to go after her, but Cho held him back with the quick shake of his head and a hand on his shoulder.

"Let her be. She blames me. She should." Jane sat in her place.

He clicked the link.

He regretted it.

For all Patrick Jane had seen, for coming home that night so long ago to see his beautiful wife and daughter mutilated, to see the disciples of a mad man fall one after another in a long line, this shook him to the core.

It was an overview shot of Teresa Lisbon, cuffed to a twin bed with blindingly white sheets and not a stitch of furniture to be found other than where she lay in the center of the small room

But that was not what made him want to throw up. Blood. Everywhere. He could see every cut. Every deep gash and biting laceration. Her clothing was torn. The sheets were stained red. She was white as a ghost, her dark raven hair the only other true color livening up the room.

The tears silently slipped down his weathered face.

He couldn't help thinking that Red John had positioned her in such a way for a purpose. He touched her cross, stroking down its gold surface. He may not have been a religious man, but he knew his art and he'd been to a church with Lisbon not long ago.

_Well, stalked her into the church was more like it, though not the point._

He turned when he heard Rigsby gasping intake. "Is…is she?"

Cho looked nauseated but managed to point out what Jane was thinking.

"Son of a bitch…it's like he's crucifying her."

Yes. Without the nails, the spear, the cross, the crown of thorns, but the idea remains. The _image_ remains.

Another message appeared below the image.

"How much longer will you make her wait Patrick?"

Jane had enough. He left the computer, refusing to respond, knowing Red John was getting off on his pain alone. She was just a tool for him to use against Jane.

One more message popped into the window.

"Patrick, must we go back to the beginning?"

Red John was winning.

Patrick knew he'd already waited too long.

XOX

There had to be something. Anything that could give him an indication of where she was. There were no windows in the room. It was small, and it would have to be isolated, considering he'd kidnapped her first, rare for Red John. He usually just killed his victims where they were found. Then again he'd deviated lately.

_Where they were found…_

…_back to the beginning._

Jane's eyes went wide, his mind knocking blocks into place like a game of Tetris and he was the one winning now.

"Susan!" he yelled, racing down from the attic. "I know where she is!"

XOX

She gave up trying to conceal how much it hurt. To the point now that she laughed when he cut through her—it wasn't funny…she just didn't care. Didn't _feel._

"What is so comical Miss Lisbon? You are dying. Slowly, but nonetheless."

He made a line from above her right breast to the center of her chest, by her sternum. It was even deeper than the ones before.

So they were coming to the end of this.

Her response was sluggish, but she still laughed, and heard the odd echo surround her. The last time he'd come into the room to cut, she'd begun hallucinating. As a coping mechanism, she wasn't sure. And of all the people to hallucinate, her mother, father, Bosco even, she was seeing Angela Jane.

From where she was in this limbo, apart from herself in between life or death, Lisbon could see her battered body, limp, hurt, damaged.

She believed in the divine. But even this was too much for her.

Angela was as beautiful as Lorelei had spoken, as Jane had only once long ago described and fondly reminisced. It was as she stared at the blonde beauty, ever the goddess she'd heard, Teresa Lisbon realized she had never actually _seen_ this woman. No photos, no paintings. Only assumptions had filled her mind.

"You're…Angela…" She questioned with awe.

Angela nodded. "Yes, that's correct. How is my Patrick doing?"

She gaped for a moment. "Could be better. Does this mean I'm…dead?"

"No, dear. Close, but no. I wanted to talk. Just a bit. While there is time."

Lisbon swallowed strange tears for both Patrick and the lovely woman before her. What _did_ he see in her? This woman was far prettier than she'd ever imagined. And Lorelei was right…she was plain in comparison.

She heard a small, light, sad laugh. "That's not why he loves you Teresa."

Her head shot up, and she threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "Great, both of you are mind readers. That's fantastic."

"No, more an observation. You are beautiful, Teresa, but it has nothing to do with that fact alone. You have stood by my husband's side in ways I could not. His former life, conning, lying, means nothing to you—you see it as a part of him; his wealth is not a factor, not even his stay in a psychiatric hospital after our deaths…"

Lisbon listened raptly.

"You're a better woman that I. You love him for who he _is_, entirely. I loved him for who he was when I met him as a young, silly girl, and what I wished he _would_be for me. There is a difference."

"He loves you still, you know. Wears your ring like an albatross on his finger."

"I know." Angela stepped forward, gripping her upper arms. Tight. She leaned in closely, lips at Lisbon's ear. "Tell him to let me go," she whispered, before Lisbon felt a hard shove, felt like she was tumbling through a wave pool.

She woke gasping, stunned, her shirt cut nearly down the middle. A deep line mimicking the one on her right was reflected on the left, and now he was pulling the knife deep, deep, down through her abdomen. She no longer felt pain. She could hardly breathe.

Like a coroner.

Like an autopsy.

Red John's mask, she saw, was gone.

And all this time they thought he was someone convincing, manipulative, like Brett Stiles; Mean, ruthless, conniving like Bertram, maybe even someone well into the FBI or the government…but no.

He was no one.

A no one that merely wanted to be recognized as someone.

He held her hand in his, small, clammy. He'd uncuffed her. She hadn't noticed.

She coughed a small, miniscule laugh. Head lolled to the side as she watched him remove a tiny nail polish brush from a pocket. Disgusted as she was, lost as she was, she couldn't stop the laughter.

He dragged the brush down the oozing line in her stomach, picking up the blood color, returned to her hand and tediously began to paint, nail by nail.

"What's so funny, dear Teresa?"

She looked at him, dead in the eyes, glazing over with the numb pain and the knowledge that she just couldn't hold on much longer.

"We're…old friends now, speak freely," he poked. "I will relay your last words to Patrick."

The blood ink dripped. Drip. Drip. From her fingertips.

Her lip curled. The words came no louder than a breath.

"You're nobody."

XOX

"Are you positive?" Susan Darcy whispered harshly. "She doesn't have the time, and if we run in there and she isn't inside…"

"I know. Then I've lost…everything." Patrick whispered more for his benefit.

He watched SWAT, FBI, and CBI flood the not so modest confines of his once lively, happy home. The one that now had the single mattress and the face glaring crudely on the wall. At least, that was how he remembered it. Of course, before his alleged breakdown, he'd cancelled his crappy hotel room and called the incessant realtor that coveted his "gem" of a property so much—well, he'd had to make bail in Vegas somehow.

He had not expected Red John would have the [for lack of better term] balls to purchase his house. But he should have expected it, he guessed, in a sick way.

He knew where he'd find her. That much he was sure.

The same room that held the haunting death of Angela and Charlotte…and now, he thought grimly, Teresa…

"Well then, let's go," Darcy said, nodding to the team.

XOX

"It's showtime, dear Lisbon." The mad man cackled. She wanted to scream but it caught in her worn throat, body dragging limply, as he pulled her up from the blood soaked bed. Her own blood coated her nails, her toes, and her hair…her face and neck he'd left alone, unsure why.

Her body cried in agony as he maneuvered her. All the cuts that had beaded over with scar tissue, the new cuts that still leaked blood, ripped open anew, jolting her mind with the shock and pain and horror. She was a broken doll.

He was the puppet master.

It was then she realized she was in Jane's Malibu house.

In the room his family was slaughtered. The window boarded up.

Not that she would have noticed.

Well. How fitting.

XOX

CBI went in first.

Jane's only demand before he relayed her location.

If she was dead…well, he didn't want anyone calling Teresa Lisbon a victim. He wanted to be the one to hold her one last time.

He wanted to live with the guilt of her discovery. It was his guilt alone, his fault for bringing her away from the alluring light. Heaven held no place for Patrick Jane…but for Teresa…

Cho, followed by Rigsby went through the door and scoured the living room. Cho made a motion for Jane and Van Pelt to come in. Another to climb the stairs.

The stairs he'd climbed a thousand times. With Angela, with Charlotte…with Teresa.

Was he really prepared this time?

Van Pelt shook just a hair. He had the same fright coursing through his veins.

He'd come prepared for revenge. Prepared for death.

He had no vest.

He had no weapon.

He had nothing.

That was enough.

XOX

Splinters bursting through her skin—that was how it felt, dragged about the room. Setting a stage, she could tell. He was creating a mural of disgust, he'd pushed her arms against the wall, dragged her bloodied arm across. He'd already drawn the face.

Wasn't that enough?

Her mind was blank. Her eyes were empty. Her body was hollow.

The dark edges of death crept past the light she tried to catch.

The part of her in pain told her to let go.

The divine, godly part of her, the one Angela spoke with, told her to wait. Wait. Wait.

_For what…_

XOX

"Movement," Cho whispered, pointing. Jane was right.

"On three," Van Pelt mouthed with a nod.

They climbed the stairs, fearing what they'd find.

XOX

Red John was quiet for a good long while. He'd not spoken to her since he'd finished the painting. He sat on the bed she'd rested on for the last day. She sat on his knee like a child, her body uncooperative. She could not fight if she wanted to.

He calmly rested the shiny silver blade of the knife he'd used to slice and cut against her pallid, unblemished neck.

Waiting.

The door burst open. She felt his grin.

Maybe it would be over soon.

XOX

"Patrick Jane. Seems you've made it—just in time no less!" the gleeful serial killer delighted. "The show isn't over yet."

Tears ran steadily from Lisbon's eyes. Her head lolled back against his shoulder. Her body was turned outward, a shield. Her arms were tossed carelessly past his thighs in his seated position. Her feet didn't even touch the floor. They dangled. Patrick cringed, felt sick, seeing her blood trickle from her toes in such a way.

"Teresa…" Jane said, a half sob, from the doorway. He instinctively stepped forward. Lisbon made a soft gagging sound, a small sucking in of air he knew was a scream. Blood seeped from the blade.

"Ah-ah-ahhhhh," Red John said, pulling the knife in around her neck. "Careful now. Don't be so hasty. I know your friends are here. Outside the room perhaps? No matter though. We both know how this ends, now don't we?"

Cho, Grace, and Rigsby all stood just beyond Jane.

Fingers itched to pull at the triggers.

He always thought he'd want revenge.

As he stared at her delicate, slashed figure, he only wanted to take her and run.

"I don't want to kill you. I don't…I don't need to. You're already dead," Patrick whispered.

"Well, that's just so very inspiring is it not, Teresa?" Knife pulled. More blood. Her eyes rolled. "Patrick Jane, willing to give up revenge for your lowly little life. Precious."

Her fingers twitched.

The words Jane spoke were true, she knew.

Darcy was impatient, radioing ambulances…lights on or lights off though, Grace couldn't tell. It was all so fast and yet happening in such a slow motion.

Who was going to win?

Would anyone?

"What do you want from me? I'm here. Take me." Patrick's voice was so full of bitterness and surrender; it practically coated the walls around them.

Red John bit out a harsh "HAH!" stroking Lisbon's blood-caked hair. "One movement, one quick, deep cut, and she is gone from your life forever Mr. Jane, and yet, you want me to take yours? No, I'll have you writhe in despair and shame and insanity before I take that trade. I find I have no value in taking your life."

"And I no longer feel like taking yours either. I've spent enough time dwelling on you. It's time I move on, I think you know that, and you just can't let me go, Red John. Is that it? You need a playmate? If that were so, why not just ask me to play a game of chess—I'm quite good."

He was angering the psychopath again. Good, he thought. He' noticed long ago that the more someone focused on a speech the less they focused on whoever they held captive. He could see the knife loosening, subconsciously. He could see Lisbon trying, impossibly hard, to move, even a hair's breadth away from that knife.

Well, if he was going to distract a crazy obsessive freak, she could at least try to come up with a plan. Just seeing her beautiful consultant's face and knowing her best friends, her team, lie just beyond reach as forcing courage into her bloodstream, her appendages.

This was going to hurt. A lot.

"Or you know, why not just give me a shout and I'd make us a cup of tea. I do so love tea, you must know that. In fact, maybe, if we're going to be here so long, I can get one of my FBI friends to fetch us a cup?"

"What is this? This ridiculous talk of chess and tea? What are you playing at Patrick Jane?"

Patrick smiled. "Nothing."

It happened too fast.

She'd been immobile and limp and damaged so long, the motion had to be fast, like ripping a band aid that hurt more than a bee sting set on fire.

Lisbon lifted her head off the killer's shoulder, and swiftly smashed the back of it into his nose, a similar crunch to Lorelei's.

The scream she released was akin to the dying of an animal as the blinding, white hot, searing burn caught up to her rapidly. So was Red John's as he reached and pulled her hair so jarringly hard her head snapped back, causing the two to fall backward. The struggle was a crippling blur in the darkness of the house.

Jane reached around, grabbing the gun Cho had slipped into his waistband, as the rushing sound of a thousand SWAT officers encroached and the quiet became loud.

His eyes had long adjusted to the dark. Red John was standing now, blood gushing form his nose and a hostile, rabid cast in his eyes showed his intent.

Lisbon's breath had become shallower. The cut deeper in her neck…she was trying to hold it, hold on. The knife was half sunk into her ribcage.

"What now Patrick?" Red John demanded, cruelly, as Jane held the gun, as steady in the moment as possible, as Cho had taught him for months at the range, without her knowing.

"J-jane…" Lisbon pleaded, fading in the presence of death.

"Now? You die."

Jane pulled the trigger.

Silence for just the briefest millisecond in time.

God he hoped he hadn't…

But he had.

Because to kill Red John, he'd had to shoot her too.

They fell so hard, so slow. Red John clung to her in death, the way Lorelei clung to Jane for life.

He would not take her with him.

He fell to her side, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but her, as everyone flooded the room and shoved and pushed; slashed and bloodied and beautiful, with a bullet through her shoulder that led to the bullet in Red John's vacant heart.

Grace was first. Stroking Lisbon's hair, yelling something.

Cho followed, searching a pulse.

Rigsby just remained, staring at everything and nothing.

And Lisbon stared only into Jane's eyes. Even though it was hard.

Even though she fought bravely.

Even though she could fight no more.

Fading. Fading.

Falling.

Gone…

XOX

_Don't get to close_

_It's dark inside…_


	6. Scars And Stories

**A/N:** chapter 6…maybe one more after-epilogue? Must confess: listened to Florence and the Machine's _Never Let Me Go_ and Taylor Swift's _Safe and Sound_ while writing this entry. Ahhh they never cease to inspire…

**Dark Red Demons**

_Your eyes, they shine so bright_

_I want to save their light_

_I can't escape this now_

_Unless you show me how…_

One hundred sixty-eight cuts.

Twenty-four hours of constant pain.

Twelve hours in surgery.

Three times she coded.

5:08 a.m.

Teresa Lisbon slipped into a coma.

XOX

Patrick sat in the hard, deceptively cushy seeming blue hospital chair. He hadn't spoken since Red John's last breath left his body. Van Pelt couldn't help but think he looked a bit like a wilted flower, lively, bright…and then gone with the wind.

If boss didn't make it, Patrick Jane wouldn't either. That was gospel.

They walked on eggshells, scared of their own shadows now. Of the tedious connections breaking.

Van Pelt touched his shoulder gently, telling him she was getting coffee and tea. He nodded, but dared not meet her eyes.

The mad man was gone. Red John had gotten his just desserts.

Patrick Jane had finally taken Red John's life, exacted a revenge of sorts…but now, he'd climb through hell to give Lisbon her life back.

He sniffed, opening his palm reflexively, eyeing what he held with reverence.

It was the last thing she'd been able to give him.

It meant the world.

XOX

Her vivid emerald eyes held everything in that moment, lying on the floor of his former bedroom, bleeding out of hundreds of deep gashes and the gunshot wound inflicted by him.

Teresa's fingers folded, grasping, for his, and when he realized what she was doing he immediately grabbed for her cool, ashen hand. In the chaos that surrounded them, it was a grounding feeling.

She tried to relay a million words and feelings in that look, but then her eyes grew distant. She saw past him, to another world where someone as good and kind as she would be welcomed into the arms of her departed family, friends…and who was he to keep her from it?

Her hand became limp, fingers sliding from his one by one.

It revealed what had kept her going.

A bloodied, crushed, little paper frog.

The one he'd made for her so long ago.

He'd never let it go now.

Like the face on the wall, it was all he had…

XOX

Another pang of guilt struck him. The kind of guilt that had him jumping from the sticky, plastic chair.

Their unspoken conversation still hung over them in a sort of suspended animation.

Every exchange spun through his head on a loop.

A man so smart…why was he so, and how could he be so…ignorant and dismissive to the beauty, the love, of this woman?

He would owe her. Beyond any amount of paper frogs, especially with what he decided to do in that moment.

Grace returned, having brought tea for Jane, well aware he'd no doubt complain about it anyway.

The elevator dinged and she stepped out.

"Jane, I—"

Grace looked around. Her heart sunk.

He was gone.

XOX

Three weeks in a coma.

It hurt so badly, she could hardly bear the pain. Sure, more than likely she'd heal physically—some scars would fade; others would remain a glaring reminder of her ordeal.

But Teresa remained in her foggy limbo, waiting.

A different soul came to her. One she recognized instantly, her consultants delightful little girl. Charlotte. In her dream, much like the last, she could see herself asleep and damaged, scarred. Instinctively, Teresa knew he had not come to her bedside.

That thought killed her.

"Teresa?" She whipped around, found herself seated next to the glowing child. All blonde curls like her father, vivid blue eyes and softness of her mother. She was older, far more so than she'd been when she'd passed.

"Charlotte?"

The girl smiled charmingly, nodded. Then she spoke. "You should wake up, you know. My father misses you. He doesn't know how to show it properly, that's all."

Teresa's smile was watery at best. She felt such affection towards the girl she'd met only in the pages of her case file. "I wish I knew that. I wish…I could believe that," she whispered softly.

Charlotte rested her hand over Lisbon's. She was surprisingly warm. "Like my mom, I have a message for my father too. Could you please tell him that moving on doesn't mean forgetting mom and me? We so desperately love him, but it's time. I'd…" the girl blushed, looking away from the woman next to her. But the light smile returned, and she made sure she caught Lisbon's eye now before speaking shyly. "I'd like to know my dad could love again, I'd like to know I had a little brother, or a sister, to watch over. To guard and protect them. I always wanted to be a big sister, but you know as well as I do that anything can happen. Please, Teresa. Please wake up. Please tell him this. Please, for me."

The small child wrapped her arms lovingly around Lisbon. She felt warm, so, so warm. Teresa had cried enough in the past year, but these tears were different.

"Okay." She whispered.

The pushing feeling returned.

Her eyes opened, taking in the brightly lit room.

She whispered his name in question.

She knew he wasn't there.

XOX

Grace had dutifully stayed by her side, speaking to her every day about the team, until Lisbon woke mid-conversation, listening to Van Pelt's rendition of Rigsby's son already learning to burp the ABC's.

Of course, Lisbon's first question was of Jane.

Van Pelt looked away, demeanor sad, eyes quickly downcast. The red head before her was one of the worst liars she knew.

"_Grace?" Lisbon had queried after a long pause. _

"_Gone. Teresa, he's just…gone." _

"_Oh…" she'd whispered, turned away, and silently cried into her hospital pillow. _

For Van Pelt, typically the most respectful to address her as anything but 'boss' in the five, rounding six, years she'd known the headstrong team member…

It could only mean that her words were true.

Since that day, progress had no longer become important. She didn't want to speak to a shrink—_well, especially after the last time_—who had no idea who she spoke of, and why. They didn't understand her pain, her tragedy.

Her scars.

The only one who would know, understand her, had left her alone.

Teresa Lisbon should have been healing. She saw the doctors faces, one after another, in and out of her room at all odd hours; knew they were irritated that her progress had all but come to a stop. They were worried.

So was Lisbon. Just not for herself.

She missed him so.

XOX

He weighed his options, twirling the gold cross pendant absently as he walked the familiar shoreline. The beach helped him think. The waves were soothing in times of peril. And he needed all the soothing he could get.

She was awake.

Van Pelt refused to speak to him since he left—the message had come from Cho's consistently stony voice.

She asked for him. Constantly, to his great surprise. On the contrary, he'd figured the mere presence of him after she'd disappeared, been scarred and ruined by an evil not meant to touch her, been shot through her shoulder to kill the darkness that stood behind her…well, suffice to say he doubted it would go well.

He wanted her to heal. To forget.

He wanted her to stay away.

He didn't want her lovely, pure soul to change because of the aura of death and destruction that followed him wherever he went.

He'd stay here, a little longer.

Jane's hand crushed the little gold cross.

It's sharp edges bit into his hand.

XOX

Three months.

That's how long it took her to fully recover. Well, to the doctor's standards anyway. She had been with Patrick Jane long enough to know how to pull at wits and nerves and manipulate.

The shrinks had been harder to con, but he'd be proud.

After all, she was anything but fine.

Van Pelt nervously offered Teresa the small spare room in her apartment the day they left the confining hospital. She gave her agent a strange look, but then it clicked.

The face on her wall was still there. Red John had been in her life for so long, that he'd been in her home made her nauseous. And that was a violation she was not able to overcome.

She had movers box her life into cardboard.

She broke the lease to her apartment the next day.

They wouldn't let her return to 'active duty' but she was allowed to supervise the cases that rolled in and catch up on weeks of paperwork.

Life would not stop because she'd been taken and tortured.

It wouldn't stop because Red John was dead.

Teresa couldn't be in her office. She made her way through the bull pen, past desks of curious onlookers. She'd become quite a celebrity—the woman that survived Red John. The only one. She wanted to laugh, because they venerated Patrick Jane a hero as well, and she knew he saw himself as anything but. She knew he saw himself as the monster in the story.

Lisbon didn't stop her movements until she reached his attic. It was the only place she had left of him, and she lay on the cot, breathing in the scent that lingered in the indents of the pillows.

It wasn't long before she was asleep.

It was dreamless. And she was thankful.

She hadn't dreamed since her talk with Charlotte.

XOX

Patrick stood, basking in the warmth that surrounded him. He had only one way of letting go of the tragedy in this place.

He watched the demons flee with the flames.

He watched his house burn.

XOX

It was late. Or early, she couldn't tell in the dim attic. She sighed, glancing into the cracked mirror across from the cot. She had not really _looked _at herself since she woke.

She stood, walked to it. She'd avoided this too long, she knew, as she slipped the black blazer off and began unbuttoning her white blouse, trimmed in bright green.

She vowed never to wear red again.

Her shirt fluttered quietly to the floor. She sucked in her breath at the sight of herself.

It still hurt to move, to stretch the tight cuts only to grimace in pain. She would take their medicine, see the shrinks, and embrace _who_ she was now.

The vain part of her winced and looked away from the pink, mottled, bunches of pinched and puckered skin she wore. He had at least left her face untouched. She'd taken to long sleeves.

She didn't want the questions. The pity. The looks.

Another part of her beat at the vain thoughts, her hand trailing curiously over the gaped bullet wound in her shoulder. The scars she had…they proved she was a survivor.

Even if she wasn't alive but alive.

XOX

Patrick Jane may not have been a real psychic, but he fancied himself at least a decent guesser. He had the ability of always knowing where she was. He could feel her, as he carefully avoided the team and pressed the button for the attic.

It's where she'd run, he knew. She'd left her apartment a week ago, Rigsby had told him, and was staying with Grace.

He climbed the few stairs, pushed the door of the attic open.

What he saw made him want to cry and scream and kill the bastard again.

Her lithe form stood, empty, back to him, feeding off the scars on her body. He could see the disgust on her face, the sadness, _that fear_ that she was no longer desirable.

It was worse than he had initially thought. There had been so much blood before. He had not seen the aftermath. Had not thought it either.

Jane approached delicately, soundless in the gray. Her back stiffened and he knew she could feel him there.

Clad in her black bra, the modest bit of lace that peeked out from its edges, she made no move to cover herself, to pick up her shirt or hide herself away.

She wanted him to see it all.

She wanted him to hurt too.

XOX

Teresa Lisbon wanted to laugh. Sure, now he appeared, he'd come to see the show, she taunted herself darkly as she boldly showed off her scarred body to him.

She turned to face him. It wasn't pity she saw though. No, the look he gave was something indescribable, broken.

He came closer. One foot, another.

He reached out, reached to touch the bullet wound she'd admired mirthlessly a moment before.

She flinched, pushed away. "No," she whispered.

Patrick couldn't help thinking the "no," sounded so much like "don't look at me."

He never listened to her before. It wouldn't change now.

"Teresa…" Jane whispered with a shake of his head. He wanted to assure her more than ever Lorelei was wrong, and Red John had not ruined her beauty. "You are not plain. You are not ugly, nor undesirable. You're heart, your kindness, they make you the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he faltered.

Her arms crossed defensively—like the last time they'd been here in this place, speaking of how little she laughed.

"You have saved me from myself, countless, endless times. I owe you nothing more than my life," he said with reverence.

She bit back the tears, still refusing to look in his eyes. She didn't know what she'd find there, and that scared her more than anything.

Lisbon felt warm, comforting hands pull her in, running over her rough, knife marred flesh, wrapping her up in an embrace fit for heaven.

She couldn't stop it now. The dam broke, the sobs came loud and bitter, and she cried for herself, for what she'd lost in that house. She cried until nothing was left but him gently stroking her ebony hair, and he lowered them to the ground.

He pulled back, awhile after her sobbing had ended, trailing his hands from her back, up to her shoulders, down her arms and back up, and collarbone, lingering on the harsh gash in her neck, the ridges in her skin that had never been there before. He'd meant to stop there, but the pull of the deep autopsy-like mark drew his traveling hands like a magnet. Red John had barely missed her vital organs, distracted by his hatred for Jane.

She was so blindingly white before him now, all the blood loss, for her body to create more of the life-aiding substance was wearing on her. She was thin and hollow. His hand drifted once more to where the dagger had stuck in her ribs—ribs he could feel, see, jutting now.

"Don't…just, please…don't do this me Jane?" she managed helplessly. She sounded so childlike and shattered. How could he make this up to her? How could he prove himself…

She wanted to curl up in a corner, never return.

She closed her eyes, leaned against the mirrored dresser.

She felt something feather-light brush the bullet wound. It confused her. She opened her bright, vivid green eyes. His face rested against her shoulder. His lips had replaced his fingers on the wound.

He began following a pattern, of scars that zigzagged and the memories of every good thing that happened to the pair. _She had to know, _he thought, his lips following the patterns deftly.

She was shaking, sliding down, down, down. Her head came to a jarring halt on the attic floor as he blindly kissed the scars.

Only then did she see it. The little flash and flicker of gold. She reached out for it instinctively.

He stopped, hovering only a little over her, placed his hand back into the softness of her hair.

She was confused for a while then, staring at her gold cross around the neck of her atheist consultant. Her words flooded back to her at lightening speed from their day in the park.

"_What will you wear for me?"_

She had her answer, then. He wore her faith, in him, in them.

Nothing came from her mouth, even as she opened it to speak. He only smiled small at her reaction.

She swallowed. He had to know. "When…when I was dying…she came to me. They both did, really. I'm supposed to tell you…if you want."

It was his turn to eye her curiously. He knew she'd coded three times, but also, in the state she'd been in he knew she must have come up with a coping technique, to get through that pain.

He nodded cautiously.

"Your wife, is unbelievably beautiful," she whispered mournfully eyes closed. "She loves you, always will…but she wants you to let her go."

Patrick only listened, anger creeping in but also, the knowledge that the woman before him would never lie to him, a woman that so whole-heartedly believed in after lives and souls…who was he to say she lied now?

"And Charlotte…she's so pretty Jane. She wanted you to know that letting them go, moving on, it isn't forgetting them." She wiped a tear away from his face; he wasn't looking at her now, merely absorbing. "I won't let you forget them Patrick."

He stood suddenly, pulling her up with him, and squeezed her in an embrace so hard she lost her breath and winced in pain. "Thank you," he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled, burying her damp face into his neck, as he swayed, she captive in his arms, knowing she would not want to be anywhere else.

They must have made for an interesting sight. The topless, scarred woman, almost dancing in the arms of the damaged man.

At least, that's what Van Pelt thought, backing away from the door. This was not a scene she would want to disturb, and she had no business seeing it.

Her guest room, she knew, would be empty and more than likely remain so—and Lisbon clearly did not need a ride home tonight. She already was.

XOX

"Patrick…" Lisbon broke the quiet as they swayed. It was lulling her into a delicious sleep, but she waved it away.

"Yes, Teresa?"

She liked when he spoke her name.

"I love you."

She felt his massive smile against her hair. He held a bit tighter.

"I know Teresa. You forget, my dear, how transparent you can be."

She chuckled lightly. "You forget I can read you like a book, Patrick Jane," she countered nicely.

He sighed. "Yes it seems you've picked that trait up quite well in my absence," he responded, making light of his 'breakdown.'

"What can I say, I learned from the best?" her jovial tone turned serious then. "Don't…don't leave me again, okay?"

It was such a shy, tempered hope; he felt his heart sink again.

He stopped their peaceful swaying, taking a step back. "Teresa, I told you earlier that I owed you nothing less than my life. I meant that. I will never let you go. It would be far too hard to do."

His gaze went to his left hand. The ring. The one he wore for a ghost. He pulled the golden band gently with his right thumb and forefinger until it slid from his finger with a soft pop.

Teresa stood, stunned and rooted to the floor. He took her hand in his, uncurling her fingers before pressing the ring in to her waiting palm.

"Patrick, you don't…"

He held up his hand to stop her speech. "No, Teresa, you're right. All this time I've been wearing it for a ghost, not for a memory, not for my wife. It's time to let her go. I can't make a life with you until I do that."

He moved into her space slowly, closing his hand around the one with the ring hidden inside. "I've loved you, for a long, long time, Teresa Lisbon. All I can give you is my life."

Teresa Lisbon truly looked at him. She knew then, what he was saying, what his intentions were.

It was his odd way of proposing.

Who was she to say no?

"Yes, Patrick."

He cupped her face with his palm, grinning like a teenager, and pressed nothing more than a butterfly kiss to her waiting lips.

"Yes.." he repeated, joy present.

XOX

Two immortal souls watched far away.

They smiled.

They could let go, too.


	7. Epilogue: Safe And Sound

**A/N:** FINAL CHAPTER! This is an epilogue…stay tuned for more to come I'm sure! This is another song by Imagine Dragons, called _It's Time_ …

**Dark Red Demons**

_It's time to begin, isn't it?_

_I get a little bit bigger but then I'll admit_

_I'm just the same as I was_

_Now don't you understand?_

_I'm never changing who I am…_

It was well over a year since Red John's death.

He breathed in the salty sea air, content, for the first time in more than ten years. A burden of guilt long lifted. He got his life back, wholly and truly.

Of course, his silly realtor had been furious when he found the house had been burnt to ashes.

Not his problem, it wasn't _his _house any longer. That had been a fun day in court.

It was the only thing he could do to set them free. No, he would never forget his wife, or his daughter.

They were tucked safely within the massive confines of his memory palace, pulled out on occasion, to share.

Besides, she said she wouldn't let him forget them.

She never had asked for her necklace back, after she observed him wearing it so long ago. At first he wondered if her faith had faltered. She'd assured him that no matter what happened, that was a resolve she would not lose.

In a way it belonged to him now, like her heart; he wore it to prove his faith in _her_.

And conversely, it delighted him to see his wedding band had taken up permanent residence around her neck in place of the little, decorative cross. She may be wife number two, but she was loved by him equally. She wore the ring so devoutly because Angela had saved her, too—and in the end brought she and Jane together—credit where it was due, Teresa thought.

"Hey there, daydreamer. I've been looking for you everywhere, what's the hold up? We have to get to Nina's christening." He wrapped a broad, tanned arm around her shoulders.

He laughed. She was such a sucker for his smile. It was so frequently on his face now.

"Ahhh…the second Rigsby child…poor guy, a boy he could handle, but a girl…?"

Yeah, they'd all had a good long laugh at that when Sarah made the announcement shortly after the small but elegant wedding. Sarah, Wayne, and Benjamin were excited to welcome the little girl though—it completed the odd little family.

"Right, so we should be going, not staring out into the ocean, wrapped up in your thoughts, being a loner…" She drawled, knowing she could tell him an alien spaceship landed behind them and he would not do so much as grunt. It wasn't that she minded when his thoughts grew distant, wandering. She just wished he'd include her.

"Teresa? I have a question…"

She raised an eyebrow. He'd been one for questions a lot more now, rather than his typical assumptions. The last assumption he made having left her in tears for hours. After Red John's death, after his ever so subtle proposal which she'd accepted in kind, he'd taken her away, as far as possible, to a lovely island where they were married by a local sea captain on the beach—just the two of them. It was wonderful. Until he'd brought up the beautiful ocean that he anxiously wanted to swim in.

She'd crumbled.

In a bathing suit, her scars would be born for all to see, and she wasn't able to handle that scrutiny.

Too soon—he'd felt like such a heel. He had not meant it unkindly, trying to goad her into the water. He'd forgotten, and he'd explained that too her; he was happy, and he, her kind husband, was able to see past the scars she hid. It was the only sore part of their relationship—her confidence in her image was fractured, no longer shattered, but not whole either.

They were working on it. Day to day.

"Well…what do you think of Charlie?"

She smirked, wondering what he was playing at.

"Ummm…I don't know, who's Charlie?"

He shrugged, face non-committal. "I was just thinking…"

"About what? Or who? Come on Jane," she was becoming irritated. The last names were only used at work, for sheer convenience, and in times of the great agitation her husband loved to cause her.

"Now, now, I didn't mean to cause ire. I was simply inquiring your thoughts on Charlie. After all, my love, I've had plenty of time and patience to come up with a name for our little one."

Her mouth gaped. "W-what…h-how did…_damn you Jane_! I've been trying to tell you for a _week_! You knew!"

He couldn't stop laughing—which only served to fuel her abject rage.

"Of course I knew! I've been married before, Teresa, I've had a child before," he shrugged again, cheeky. "Also, I found the test."

Yes, she was his 'Angry Princess.' Forever.

He loved her.

And she, him.

Even as she shoved him into the ocean. Screaming obscenities about nothing ever being a surprise.

And stalked off to the car where she'd wait for him.

But he was happy.

Looking up at the sky, knowing they, too, were laughing.

Always watching…


End file.
